As soon as we get out of the school and down into the parking area, Enzo lays a hand on Nico’s shoulder. “Who was this other boy you were in the fight with?”

Nico’s shoulders slump. “Caden Ruda. He’s a jerk.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s a jerk,” I say. “You can’t start a fight like that.”

“I know,” Nico mumbles.

“Your mother is right,” Enzo says. He pauses. “But I also do not want you to think it is not okay to stand up for someone who is being bullied.”

Nico’s dark eyes widen at his father’s words.

“Enzo,” I snap at him. “Nico is in a lot of trouble. He punched a kid in the face!”

“A kid who deserved it.”

“We don’t know that!”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I would think you of all people would be understanding about how important it is to stick up for someone in trouble.”

He’s right. I have always stuck up for people in trouble. And where has that gotten me? I went to prison because I stuck up for a friend in trouble—I kept her from being raped but then went too far and gave up ten years of my life. Enzo also sticks up for people in trouble, but he’s always been smarter about it. After all, he has never been to prison like I have.

I had hoped that Nico took after him. I don’t want my son to take after me.

“It was the wrong thing to do,” I say stubbornly. “Nicolas, you’re grounded.”

“Fine,” he mumbles.

“And you’re coming home in my car,” I add. I don’t want to risk Enzo telling Nico again that he is a hero for breaking that other kid’s nose.

I hate the way Nico won’t look at me and won’t offer a sincere apology. It’s not like him. Nico isn’t perfect, but when he gets in trouble, he’s always quick to say he’s sorry. When did that change?

It seems like my son is growing up, and I’m not sure I like what he’s becoming.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I check on Nico after dinner to make sure he’s doing all right. He was quiet during dinner, pushing his food around his plate instead of actually eating it. Meanwhile, Enzo acted like nothing at all was wrong. He truly doesn’t think our son deserves to be punished.

When I get into Nico’s room, he’s reading a comic book. As part of his punishment, we have taken away all his devices, but he loves comic books. He is sitting up in bed, his black hair disheveled, his eyes pinned on the page in front of him. His left eye is already turning black and blue, but when I sit at the end of his bed, I notice both eyes are bloodshot.

“Hi, honey,” I say. “How are you doing?”

He doesn’t raise his eyes from the comic. “Okay.”

“Are you feeling upset about what happened today at school? It’s okay if you are.”

“Nope.”

“Nico.” I sigh. “Would you look at me?”

It takes him a few seconds to drag his eyes away from the comic. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. I just want to read.”

I squint at him, not sure I believe him. “Does your eye hurt?”

“Nope.”

I look over at the enclosure where Little Kiwi has resided ever since Enzo inflicted him on our family. I try to catch a glimpse of the praying mantis, but I don’t see him. I look among the twigs and leaves inside, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere. Just a bunch of flies.

Oh my God. Did that horrible thing escape? This day can’t possibly get any worse.

“He died,” Nico says.

“What?”

“Little Kiwi died,” he repeats. “He was molting and… I guess he got stuck in the molt, and he died.”

“Oh!” I’m not quite sure how to feel about the death of an insect that I hated with every fiber of my being. But Nico seemed to really like him. “Where did you put him?”

“I flushed him down the toilet.”

My jaw drops. That does not seem like a proper burial for a beloved pet, even if that pet is a horrifying praying mantis. I had assumed we would have to have some sort of somber ceremony in the backyard complete with a commemorative rock whenever Little Kiwi passed. “You flushed him down the toilet?”

“He’s an insect, Mom,” Nico says in an exasperated voice.

I’m not sure what to say to that. But something about it is highly upsetting to me. “What do you think you’re going to do all week while you’re suspended?” I barely know myself. He’ll have to come to my office or go with Enzo on his jobs.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe I can make a playdate for you one afternoon with Spencer when he’s done with school,” I suggest. The two of them have had a few playdates since that first one, and they both seemed to enjoy it a lot. “At least that way you’ll have some social interaction. Would that be okay?”

Nico shrugs again. “Okay.”

Then he picks up his comic book and starts reading again. I guess our conversation is over.

I wander back to our bedroom, but there is a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know what is going on with Nico. He’s always been impulsive, but it’s at a new level recently. Moves are hard on kids though. Hopefully, this is just a phase and he’ll bounce back soon and be his old happy self. And stop punching other kids in the face.

When I get back to our bedroom, Enzo is sifting around in the drawer of our nightstand, a frown on his lips. “Millie,” he says when I come in. “Did you take any money from this drawer?”

“No, why?”

“I had fifty dollars in here,” he says. “I think so, at least. But now… is gone.”

“Maybe Martha took it,” I blurt out.

He raises his eyes. “Martha?”

I still remember the way I caught her looking through the drawer of the desk in our living room. If she was going through that drawer, why not in our bedroom? I knew I should have fired her. “She was cleaning in here, so…”

“Maybe you should accuse her then. That went well last time, no?”